Snare of the Hunter

  Well, this time, he thought grimly, we’re not obliging the propaganda planners. We’re a purely civilian outfit. He looked at McCulloch, who was glancing at the aisle, almost said aloud, “I take it all back. I’m clued in. Washington is best kept out of all this.” But he restrained himself. You may be an amateur, he told himself, but at least you can try to seem professional. And just then he felt McCulloch’s elbow dig quickly into his side.

  A man, thickset, healthy colour in his cheeks, was passing down the aisle. David noted a shock of grey hair, a heavy moustache, strong eyebrows, and a lightweight tweed jacket, neutral in colour. So this was Walter Krieger. He carried a pipe in his hand and a book under his arm. He looked neither right nor left.

  Five minutes to wait. At the end of them David said, “Think I’ll stretch my legs,” and made his way over McCulloch’s feet. Jo was coming back to her seat. He stepped aside to let her pass, acknowledged her “thank you” and was on his way.

  In the lounge, definitely close quarters, there were five men and three women and a general eyeing of every newcomer. David took a seat, smiled around, and ordered a Scotch. “No,” Walter Krieger was replying to a man who had sat down beside him, “I don’t live in New York any more. Just visit it.”

  “I’m from the Midwest myself. Plastics. Better than glass and china. There’s a big market for them in Europe. New. That’s what they like: something new. We can’t keep up with the orders.”

  “That’s fine,” said Krieger. He had a deep rich voice, full of resonance. If he ever turned it on full power, David thought, he could blow out the side of the plane. A physically strong man who might be pushing fifty, but could possibly outfight the rest of us in this room. Not tall. Less than medium height, but well muscled and taut. He had a magnificent head—perhaps it looked imposing because he was short in stature. Beg pardon, David told Krieger silently, you aren’t short, just five feet six, with a chest development that puts the plastics guy to shame. Most of Plastics’ girth had settled around his waist. A nice guy, though: baby-faced and openhearted.

  “Yes,” he was saying, “there’s a great future in synthetics. The world’s before us. All we need is peace. Right? But it’s coming, it’s coming.”

  “That’s good,” Krieger said.

  “I’m on my way to Vienna. Then to Czechoslovakia, if all the arrangements hold up. You never can tell. Still, they’re a booming market. We can use their stuff—”

  “Such as glass?”

  “Well—that, and other things. And they can use ours. I hear they’re filling the shelves in the grocery stores now. No scarcities. Keeps people happy.”

  “A good market, obviously.”

  “The life of trade. What’s your line of business?”

  “Chocolate.”

  “Oh? You’re with a foreign firm? Or is it domestic?”

  “We amalgamated some years ago.”

  “So you’re the European representative?”

  “If that isn’t too ambitious a description.”

  “Where’s your head office?”

  “Vevey.”

  “Switzerland? What takes you to Vienna? You said you were going there—or did I get that wrong?”

  “No,” said Krieger. “That’s where I go. Several times a year. Austria makes good chocolate too.”

  “You don’t say. By the way, what do you think of McGovern’s chances? Or are you for Nixon? You vote from Switzerland, I suppose. Absentee ballot or something?”

  “I manage to get back around election time.”

  “If you ask me—” Krieger hadn’t, but the business-man from the Midwest went on talking. Not one of our silent majority, David thought as he finished his drink. Travel loosened a lot of tongues. He listened to the mixture. (My dear, you wouldn’t recognise Acapulco... I wonder what St Laurent is cooking up this season... Personally, I always liked Jamaica... And the Dow Jones average... Munich has really put money on the line for the Olympics... Two-fifty a seat, five dollars for the two of us, and we just keep walking out! Whatever happened to...?) Then he slipped away before he could be drawn in. But Walter Krieger was now more than a name.

  McCulloch had finished his work. The briefcase was closed. The newspaper had disappeared, along with the legal documents. He was fast asleep. It seemed as if Jo was asleep too, like the chateaux ladies and the small boy. Some others were watching the movie, earphones adjusted. It was one he had seen at a special preview in New York two weeks ago, and even if he hadn’t paid two-fifty for his seat, he had walked out. Yes, whatever happened to?

  He didn’t feel like reading either. He was restless in his mind. He closed his eyes, wondered what part of the Atlantic they were over now, envied McCulloch his unflappable calm, let his thoughts run jumbled through his head until, without realising what was happening, he dozed off.

  When he awoke, it was time to fasten seatbelts for Amsterdam.

  5

  David arrived in Salzburg with his thoughts still restless and his emotions divided. He fought himself for the first three hours there, and then—as he was shaving before he got dressed for the opening performance of Figaro—he made the decision. He was facing two jobs: one for The Recorder; one for Irina: each quite separate. So he’d keep his mind separated too. He would be absorbed in music for the next eight days; and once that was over, he would concentrate on the journey west. Because if he didn’t, if he kept worrying about one and then the other, as he had been doing for the last twenty-four hours, he wouldn’t write a critical piece worth a damn and he’d end up in Vienna frustrated and angry—no way to take on any emergency.

  And that journey was going to have its problems. Of that he was sure. Irina’s husband wasn’t going to let them drive out of Vienna, free and easy. He would take a personal satisfaction, call it masculine ego, in hauling Irina back to Czechoslovakia. Jiri Hrádek might have disowned her publicly for his own personal—or political—reasons, but he’d never forgive her for the last insult of escaping from his security agents. These were tough guys, disciplined and dedicated, and as devious as any secret police. How in hell had Irina managed it? David wondered for the hundredth time. Now that’s enough, he told himself sharply: you made your decision, so stick with it. Keep your mind off Irina, or else you’re going to cut yourself with this new blade and you’ll arrive at the Grosses Festspielhaus dripping all over your shirt front.

  She’s safe, isn’t she? She’s safely hidden, and possibly in less danger now than when she steps into your car.

  He finished shaving, started dressing and reading the programme notes for tonight, a combined operation as usual.

  Standard routine was a pacifier. He was in control, no more self-argument, by the time he stepped into the busy street outside the hotel and joined the steady procession of people, couples, singles, small groups, making their way across the bridge to the Old Town. A quiet crowd, young as well as middle-aged with a sprinkling of elderly veterans, low-voiced and smiling, the women in their prettiest late-evening dresses with the breeze from the river fluttering long skirts around satin slippers, lending a raffish note to broad daylight. But there was more than handsome clothes. These people knew their music: they had travelled a long way to hear it. There was nothing bored about them, either. There was a feeling of expectancy in the voices, of excitement in the air, as the looming domes and towers of Salzburg welcomed the pilgrims into its narrow twisting streets. Here, thought David, is another world. Unreal? Scarcely. It had had its centuries of danger and desperation; even—only thirty years ago—its bomb craters and flames, piles of rubble and cold ashes: reality enough for anyone. Suddenly he thought back to one of his antagonists on the staff of The Recorder, a recent addition who was devoted to hard-rock festivals. (He’d have trouble with that guy: he was out for David’s job.) Well, Woody, he told him now, you can have all the subcultures you can swallow. I’ll take civilisation.

  And with that he entered the vast hall, pressed through the gathering crowds, and saw two friends wait
ing at the foot of the staircase. He waved to them, caught their attention. Honest smiles and a warm welcome. He was not only under control now; he was back to normal.

  * * *

  The eight days were over. The last reports he had made were already in the mail for The Recorder’s copy editor. The hired car was being delivered to the hotel door. The hotel bill was being added up at the desk. He had packed, leaving a suitcase with the porter, jamming the more workaday clothes into a bag which could easily be hauled around. He had the road maps, which he had picked up at the automobile agency yesterday spread out on his bed along with his own guide to Austria—there was an adequate plan of Vienna at the back of the little book—and these he studied attentively as he waited for the desk to call.

  The telephone rang. “Yes?” he asked, his mind still calculating kilometres: about a hundred and seventy miles on the big new throughway to the outskirts of Vienna. It avoided all towns and villages. So it would take three hours, perhaps less, if he travelled when most others had stopped for lunch. Allow about half an hour, at least, to get through twelve miles of suburbs and streets, until he could arrive in the heart of the inner city. “Yes?” he said again, realising it wasn’t the desk ’phoning about the car, “Mennery here.”

  “And how nice!” said a woman’s voice. “Did I wake you?”

  “No, I’m just about to take off.”

  “I thought everyone slept till eleven in Salzburg after a heavy night. Lucky I did call early. There’s a slight change in plans.”

  It was Jo Corelli, no doubt about that. He switched from surprise to worry. “Oh?”

  “Nothing to trouble you. Very slight. You’ll be driving in from the west, so once the expressway ends you might go through the Wienerwald. I could meet you somewhere there. You name a place.”

  “Why not Grinzing?” He had intended it as a small joke. It was a once-upon-a-time village, now swallowed up in the sprawl of Vienna suburbs: a tourist lure with conscious local colour.

  But she took him up on that and very quickly. “Wonderful,” she said. “Couldn’t be better for me.”

  “A mob scene like that?” Hardly her style, he thought.

  “By the time you get there, most of the crowd will have eaten and left. All we’ll find is a few tired waitresses and some beer coasters on the tables. There’s a quaint little place right on the trolley-car lines. Green shutters, red geraniums—yes, I think that’s right. It’s got a name like the Jolly Peasant, something pretty close to that. You can’t miss it: there’s a streetcar stop outside its front door, and a parking area at its side. Simple. You’ll get there around two, and—”

  “Give or take half an hour,” he cut in. She was full of instructions, this girl.

  “I’ll be winetasting under the vines in the back garden. It’s heady stuff, so don’t be late.”

  “No, ma’am,” he managed to insert before she hung up quickly.

  “Goddammit,” he said as he gathered up the maps and guide-book, locked his bag. The telephone was ringing again, but this time with a brief call from the desk. “I’ll be down,” he told the porter. He made one last hasty check around the room—incredible how well you could tuck yourself into a place in eight short days—and then he was on his way.

  * * *

  The steady drive to the outskirts of Vienna had been easy; the small detour to Grinzing a little more complicated. David felt some satisfaction when he managed to arrive at five minutes past two. He parked the car, freshened up in a washroom littered with the debris of departing tourists, and found his way to the garden behind the inn. Jo was there, as promised, looking fresh and untroubled in a simple white dress. Strangely, she didn’t seem out of place either, sitting in a vine-covered alcove with the sunlight playing gently through the leaves overhead. The garden was large, filled with close-packed tables and benches: only half of them were now occupied, none near her. In front of her was a thick goblet half-empty, and a carafe of white wine misted over with the warmth of the day. It was almost full, he noted as he reached her. Well, he thought with relief, no apologies necessary: she can’t have been here for long. “Well timed,” he said, putting out his hand for a quick, polite shake. “And congratulations on the table.” Then his smile turned to a look of surprise. She was still holding his hand.

  “I think this is necessary,” she said. “The waitress would never forgive you if you weren’t demonstrative. She helped me get this alcove. She was beginning to worry about me—a romantic soul.”

  “And what did you tell her to get this table?” He tightened his grip. If anyone was going to hold hands, he’d do it, thank you. He slid on to the bench beside her. “Let me know when you get a cramp.”

  “I’ve got to eat,” she said as she pulled her hand loose. And the food was already arriving on an enormous tray, balanced on the shoulder of a middle-aged and ample blonde in a dirndl costume.

  “So soon?”

  “I took the liberty of ordering,” Jo said. “I told her you’d be hungry. Besides, there wasn’t much choice left. Pork or veal. I chose veal. Okay? Just as well to get all the service over, and then we can really talk. How was the journey?”

  “Fine.” A hot-plate, with its warming candle lit, was being set before him.

  “And how was the music? Up to standard?” Down went the large platter, piled with schnitzel, on the hot-plate.

  “Definitely.” At this moment Salzburg seemed very far away. A deep plate of sliced cucumbers afloat in marinating liquid was expertly placed. Slices of black bread. Another heavy goblet along with another carafe.

  “Darling,” said Jo, “it really is so wonderful to see you!” If she had wanted to get his attention away from the speed of the service, she certainly managed it. He smiled appropriately, kept his eyes fixed on her face, and hoped the waitress would think it devotion. A clatter of heavy plates, a rattle of knives and forks, the slap of two small checked napkins on the wooden table, and with one last understanding beam from the waitress and a parting good wish for their appetites—they were left to themselves.

  “What did you tell her about us?” he insisted. “Am I supposed to be stealing you away from a jealous husband?” That would be in the best light-opera tradition, and all Vienna loved its Strauss.

  “I didn’t have to say much.” Jo was unexpectedly embarrassed. “I just lowered my eyes and blushed a little.”

  He had a sudden suspicion. “How long were you waiting for me?”

  “Well—I wanted to be sure of this table, and there was still a crowd to cope with.”

  “How long?” he repeated.

  “Oh, about half an hour. Perhaps a little more. You see, I couldn’t time my arrival very well. So—” She shrugged her shoulders.

  If so, that was the only thing she couldn’t do well. “Look,” he said with some asperity, “I can serve myself. Heap your own plate first.”

  “Mr. Mennery, we are in the land of dutiful women. Relax and enjoy it while it lasts.”

  He took a long drink of wine. A little sweet, but light and pleasant.

  “It slips up on you,” she warned him. “Strange how a young wine—it’s practically straight from the press—can pack a stronger punch than a vintage year.”

  “You seem to be holding up well. Not a consonant slurred.”

  She bridled at last. “I have drunk exactly half a glass.”

  In spite of himself, he was amused. “Then you’re a magician to hold this table for three-quarters of an hour at the price of one small carafe of wine.”

  “That’s my second. I emptied the other out behind me. It’s all right. No one saw. Besides, it wouldn’t harm the vine roots.”

  He laughed outright. “No damage done. It will probably strengthen the flavour of the next batch of grapes.”

  “Our waitress is delighted,” she reported. “She now thinks I’ve quite forgiven you for almost standing me up.”

  “Is she so important?” he asked, still amused.

  “Everyone is important.
And even more so in this little game we are now playing.”

  A game? Was that what it was to her? Something to break the monotony of her social rounds? Something new, something different? He concentrated on the paper-thin veal cutlet encrusted in egg and bread crumbs. It was always palatable in Austria, even digestible.

  She was studying him. “Sorry there are no anchovies on top: I guess they’ve run out of them. But cheer up—the zither music doesn’t start till the evening.”

  “I like zither music in its home base.”

  “So do I,” she agreed. “I love all of this. But just now and again,” she added quickly, “not as a permanent diet.”

  Like the game we are now playing, he thought. “Breaks the monotony?”

  She had sensed something in his voice. She frowned, helped him to the cucumber salad, didn’t splash any of the liquid dressing over him. “One of the reasons we met here was an idea I had. I thought it would be useful if we could get to know a little about each other before we started work tomorrow.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea at all, he admitted to himself. “What are the other reasons?”